


Conspicuous attraction

by Queenofthefaceless



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A game of truth or drink goes a bit south, F/M, Fluff, Unexpected Confession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28089957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenofthefaceless/pseuds/Queenofthefaceless
Summary: Following the Queen’s coronation in the North, Sandor’s feelings get unveiled at last before everyone else. Including the new Queen herself.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 52





	Conspicuous attraction

The feast looked as appetizing as it could be: all kinds of meats, vegetables, wines and ales, as well as desserts and fruits were spread across the tables, loafs of breads completing the scenery. It was meant to be mouth-watering and full of festivity. After all, there was a new – and first time – Queen in the North proclaimed and it called for a massive celebration. People all over the Seven Kingdoms and from all Houses were invited to celebrate the event, all courtesy of the Queen herself.

Everyone raised their glasses to the Queen, including Sandor. He stood at the table, secluded, body still aching from the pain endured, but at least he was healing. At least he got to return to Winterfell to witness the little bird become something great, just as he had always knew she would.

Of course, he wouldn’t have returned and would’ve chosen death should it not have been for Gendry fucking Baratheon, Lord of Storms End now, and his endless pestering to Arya and somehow _tricking_ her into returning.

And what was _he_ ought to do? Say no? He practically raised the little Stark bitch. Damn his soft spot for that cold murderous child.

So there he was, raising his glass for Queen Sansa Stark, at the same time watching Tyrion Lannister, Brienne of Tarth, Ser Davos Seaworth, Podrick Payne, Bran Stark, King of the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Bronn of Blackwater, all drinking and laughing at each other. He noticed the new armors on Brienne and Podrick and reckoned they had been recently anointed with a knight’s distinction. Sandor huffed, muttered something to himself and chugged down his ale until the cup was empty and poured himself another one.

Unfortunately, Tyrion caught him looking at their side of the table and stood up as he could, already somewhat intoxicated.

“Why don’t you join us, Clegane?” he shouted loud enough.

The large man huffed again.

“Mind your own business, Imp,” he cooed eventually.

“Come on, we’re celebrating! Play this game with us!”

“Play games and braid each other’s hair?”

Podrick and Ser Davos were the only ones who giggled.

“It was a game I played with my brother and friends, too. Ask Ser Brienne. It’s fun.”

Sandor looked over to the ridiculously tall woman, waiting some confirmation.

“It involves drinking. I think you can manage,” she said.

“Don’t be grumpy, celebrate with us,” Gendry encouraged him.

“Alright, just shut up about it, you sneaky twat.”

He rose from the seat, height intimidating everyone else, but the people at that table were already familiarized with him. He took a seat right next to Gendry since it was the only one available, but he avoided looking at him. He still had some internal spat with the blacksmith. Fuck, _the lord._

“What’s this game then, Imp?”

“It’s simple. I make an assumption about you, and if I’m right, you drink. If I’m wrong, I drink. Observe!”

Tyrion turned towards Ser Davos, his eyes getting smaller as he carefully investigated his face.

“You… had feelings for the Red Woman.”

Ser Davos’ eyes widened with shock.

“To hell if I did! Drink up, my Lord!”

Tyrion obeyed and drank up. Sandor suspected he said something stupid on purpose in order to be having another drink.

“Simple, isn’t it?” Tyrion asked. “Alright, let’s see… you. Hm. You returned here to Winterfell… for something.”

Sandor smirked very cockily, leading Tyrion to believe he was missing out on something. Right as he opened his mouth to continue his sentence, Queen of the North walked by and nodded to all of them as acknowledgement, and he saw Sandor follow her with his eyes, seemingly holding his breath. Then Tyrion whispered a long _“oooohhhh”_ to himself, realizing.

How could he had not seen it earlier?

“You came back to Winterfell for _someone,_ ” he corrected himself.

Sandor remained motionless as the whole table looked at him.

“Someone get him another drink, he fucking froze,” Bronn commented with amusement.

“Someone you’ve longed for… even back in King’s Landing. Holy shit, it makes so much sense now!”

“The fuck you talking about, Imp?”

“You always jumped to her rescue and looked out for her, independent of orders.”

“Who?” asked Podrick in what he thought was a whisper.

“The Queen in the North.”

Jaws were dropped quite literally at the table, all eyes staring at Sandor, waiting for his move. His reputation as the Hound had been long forgotten, sure, but that was no reason or excuse to allow himself to be on display for those kind of people in those moments. He felt trapped.

“Fuck off with your superstitions,” he replied bitterly.

“Denial. Classic,” said Bronn, patting him on the back.

“Don’t touch me. And fuck your denial, too!”

“You are in the presence of the King of the Andals, I dare remind you,” Ser Davos said, carefully watching Bran.

“You sound quite defensive and angry, Clegane,” Brienne noted.

“The Queen is… royalty. Shut up with your stupid ideas.”

“You said you’d always keep my sister safe.”

Bran’s voice was still and smooth, statement perfectly rolling down his tongue. His blank eyes looked right at Sandor, whose cuss words and shield disappeared.

“ _‘I could keep you safe’_ , you said. _‘They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them’_ you told her.”

Sandor’s brows furrowed.

“Aye, the King knows about the past, present and the future. All that has happened, all that is happening now, and what will happen,” Ser Davos explained.

“Not so tough now, are we?” Bronn said, raising his cup.

Much to everyone’s shock, Sandor drank at last, left with a bitter feeling. He was at last exposed, people having knowledge now of his darkest secret till this day.

Sandor growled, eyes filled a blind rage shooting at Tyrion’s.

“You better stop talking before I punch you in the throat and rip your guts out.”

While the whole table (except for Bran) shared continuous laughter and joy, Tyrion fixed Sandor with his eyes. He never recalled a time seeing him so worked up and filled with such hot, burning rage. He knew he was a man of incredible anger, but that was something else. He seemed on the verge of a breakdown.

“You have feelings for her,” Tyrion said, thus shutting up everyone else.

Sandor stared back at him, rage disappearing. He became downright scared.

“Fuck off.”

Tyrion pointed his cup at him, carefully examining his eyes.

“You have feelings for the Queen. You’re smitten with the Queen.”

“If you don’t shut your cunt mouth – “

“It was never just about bedding her, you – you wanted to _be with her_.”

Sandor growled to himself this time, barely enduring all the surprise and smiles at the table. He hated it. He hated the lot o them. He hated talking to people. He hated talking. He hated himself for returning to Winterfell and not dying, as he intended to.

The company at the table watched as Sandor finished his drink, thus indirectly confirming all that Tyrion had previously stated. He looked undisturbed as he stood up and cussed, eager to leave already, but the second Sansa walked by again, he stood still, chest hollowed of any emotion, only restlessness residing seemingly in his rib cage. 

“Your Grace,” he bowed a little, forcefully. 

“I’m glad you returned safely,” she said.

“I wouldn’t have. I didn’t want to. If it wouldn’t have been for this little – “

Sandor turned towards Gendry whose eyes widened as response, shaking his head.

“Mind if I join you?” Sansa asked, already taking a seat.

“Please sit, Your Grace.”

“Playing a fun game, I suppose?”

“Not a fucking chance,” Sandor muttered to himself.

“The best!” exclaimed Tyrion, excited once again. “Alright, Ser Davos, pour her Grace some wine, if you will. I make a statement about someone, and if I’m right, they drink. If I’m wrong, I drink.”

“Is it appropriate to play this in the presence of the Queen in the North?” Brienne asked, obviously concerned.

“We drank in front of Bran, his Grace, and he didn’t seem to mind.”

“As long as there is no harm done,” Bran said with a little smile.

“Ask away then, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa said, remembering her courtesies as usual.

Tyrion slouched a little over the table, drunkenness clear in his eyes and gestures, but luckily Sansa was only amused. She patiently waited for his statement, noticing all the while on her right how still Sandor stood. Almost too solemn, much like a true knight.

“You, my Queen… don’t want to remarry. The Gods know you’ve had enough of that.”

Everyone stood silent as Sansa took the first sip of her wine, with only Sandor watching her restless. He thought of the last time she was married, how violent and cruel were the words he had heard, so he could only imagine the brutal reality, and he wanted in that moment to punch Tyrion in his ugly face.

“You… would take an oath of solitude.”

Sansa smirked.

“Bottoms up, my Lord.”

Tyrion drank, blinking too fast as a realization suddenly hit him. He didn’t understand what had gotten into him that night - other than the wine, of course - but he felt like he was ought to do something about the pathetic man at the table who gushed so longingly over the Queen herself.

“So you’d want another man then?” Bronn asked. “Or... a woman?”

Sansa smiled.

“I imagine I will want a decent man should there be one crossing paths with me. I am a woman, and I do have needs after all.”

“My Queen, something tells me you would want to be with someone you find good and kind.”

“Was that your statement?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

Sansa drank, much to the surprise of the people at the table. Sandor was looking away now - a habit of his whenever Sansa was around. Or rather, since Sansa had grown into a woman, strong and powerful one. He couldn’t bear looking at her, feeling so small in her presence, so he drank in silence.

“Perhaps… someone tall, strong and fierce…? He appears much like a brute, and is quite violent, but…”

“That’s _enough_ ,” Sandor found the willpower to growl once again.

Tyrion moved his eyes to meet with his, and he clearly distinguished rage in them, as drunk as he was. Brienne coughed, hoping to put an end to the game.

“It’s not fair only you get to go, my Lord,” she said.

“I believe I am to respond to the Lord Hand’s assumption,” Sansa said and had another sip of her wine, for a short moment stealing a glance Sandor’s way. 

He froze, head lowered much like a submissive dog. _She’s talking nonsense, drinking for the sake of drinking,_ he told himself. _There are plenty aggressive fuckers out there, it ain’t just me. It’s not me._

“My turn,” Podrick said all of a sudden. 

“What do you know, the lad’s got balls,” Ser Davos said.

“He’s got a magic cock, that’s what he’s got,” Bronn added.

Laughter was spread briefly among the people present, but everyone went silent as Podrick, also quite clearly a little intoxicated, looked at Sandor, with Tyrion placing one of his little hands around his neck, slouching over him with a smile.

“You… Sandor Clegane… never knew love. _Until now_.”

Tyrion pointed with his cup in Sandor’s direction, pouting on purpose as Podrick waited a reaction to his statement. The accused stood up all of a sudden, anger boiling in his body and said nothing when he left.

“Was it something that I said?” Podrick wondered with innocence.

“A lot of what Lord Tyrion had said, lad,” Ser Davos said.

“Pointing did not help either,” Bran spoke again.

“If you’ll excuse me your Grace, my Lords, Sers,” Sansa pardoned herself and left.

“Do you think they’re gonna fuck?” Bronn asked shamelessly.

“ _Ser Bronn!_ That is highly inappropriate,” Brienne reminded him, slightly repulsed.

“I actually was asking his Grace for an answer.”

Bran looked at him blankly, a little smile erupting from the corner of his lips.

“I prefer some things to remain a surprise even to me. Also, that is my sister.”

Sansa walked down the hallway she thought Sandor went on, rushing a bit to catch up; his long legs posed a struggle when it came to following him. At last, she noticed his silhouette close to one of the towers, looking down in the courtyard. His hands were grasping the cold edge, apparently holding onto them for dear life. His head was still lowered, face hidden by his hair. Sansa approached him carefully.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to follow the social conduct or courtesies, but I did not expect to see you rush from the table either.”

“I had enough to drink,” he muttered.

“Now that is something I never truly thought I would hear.”

She came closer to him; then, as if sensing her presence, he turned around and looked at her in a way she never noticed before. There was no anger in his eyes, yet she couldn’t tell just what it was.

“Tyrion Lannister is a fucking cunt,” he rasped, then cleared his throat, realizing he was ought to speak better in her presence. “He’s an idiot,” he rectified. “Along with the others.”

“For making assumptions?” 

“For… sticking his nose in businesses that don’t concern him.”

“Is it about what he asked me?”

Sandor didn’t respond. Years ago, it was that she was the one who couldn’t bear to look at him, and now, he took every chance he could to abandon the hope of gazing into her ice-like eyes, eyes which transmitted such warmth it terrified him. He found it quite ironic how the roles have reversed. 

“Why did it bother you?” Sansa persisted, sitting next to him now.

“It always bothered me when a Lannister opened their mouths.”

“Sandor.”

He had never heard her say his real name and the moment was met with such shock that all he could do in return was to look right at her, eyes finally meeting. And it burned him so good, like nothing ever before. Sansa Stark was much like a constant flame under his skin, ever growing, ever burning, but in the most pleasurable way. 

Suddenly she reached for his hand, and the little touch-starved boy inside of him rejoiced, feeling the urge to grab her hand in response. Instead, he remained still, as a statue would, and barely breathed. Years of killings and torture and bullying have totally erased his basic social skills that were, in fact, absent to begin with. He wouldn’t know how to be normal around her. And out of the blue, he recalled all the times he had been harsh with her, though in his heart he knew he only did it to protect her and make her realize her surroundings. 

He now couldn’t stop looking at her; how her icy eyes matched the icy surroundings, seemingly part of the whole landscape. He was now very much afraid and ashamed, and gasped out loud when she reached out her other hand to meet his.

“I – can’t. _Don’t_.” was all he could snarl.

Sansa furrowed her brows, confused. She hadn’t seen him so… human. Nearly shaking, much like a traumatized little child.

“I barely even touched you,” she said.

“You don’t need to. You need only look at me and… I – I can’t.”

“Is it… true then?”

“What?”

“Tyrion’s assumptions. You returned for someone.”

Sandor gulped, eyes locking again with Sansa’s for a non-verbal confirmation. He couldn’t bring himself to confirm nor deny through words, and so all he did instead was to look at her as if she was the most important thing in the whole damned world. 

“You heard what he asked?”

Sansa nodded, a little afraid herself.

“When he said you’re smitten with the Queen – “

“No.”

“– you drank.”

Sandor growled, walking around without purpose. He didn’t want to leave, but he also refused deliberately to face Sansa, or the reality of his feelings. Though he reckoned this time around there was no escape anymore.

“I had to finish my drink,” he rasped, avoiding her eyes.

“I understand.”

“You don’t. _Believe me_.”

“Explain it to me then.”

He huffed, and Sansa knew he was no man of emotions so he was attempting to hide whatever was tormenting him in the hardest way possible.

“If you don’t want to, it’s alright.”

“I can’t. I don’t know how.”

Sansa felt the weird urge to smile, head lowered as she approached Sandor again. She almost couldn’t believe how distant the memory of her fearing him was. Just like a nightmare, in a different world and time, called King’s Landing.

“I always dealt with sleazy, disgusting men who used me to get what they want, or to satisfy their own sickening joys. And all those men are dead now. Which served them right, surely, but… one man remained true and caring through it all. You.”

She touched his forearm, thus gently turning him around, forcing him to face her.

“I didn’t treat you fairly either,” he rasped.

“You protected me and watched over me, in the only way you knew how to. You wanted me to wake up and face the reality. And I did. Much too late, that’s true, but I did.”

“I don’t – “

“I’ve always wondered what had come of you since you left King’s Landing. I also wondered more often than not what would have become of us if I would have left with you that night. I always thought of you, wondered, hoped you were alive. Hoped you would be still by my side. Then I just knew you had to be alive. But I always thought of you, Sandor.”

The man blushed a little, lowering his head in an attempt to hide it, though the dark was doing already a great job at it. Sansa followed his mimics ever so perfectly and tip toed enough so she could reach his face and pressed her soft lips against his scarred cheek, causing Sandor to tremble against his will. He looked at her with nothing more than shock.

“I don’t deserve you. Not one bit.”

Sansa smiled.

“You’re not the Hound anymore, nor am I still a little bird. We both changed. But we both know what we want”.

“And what’s that?”

“I do believe you made it quite clear moments ago. You may try to go after it and see what happens.”


End file.
